


Slender

by Luthor



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/F, Mina why did you make me do this, look what you made me do, why Mina
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 06:07:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1169598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthor/pseuds/Luthor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's still dark when Emma wakes up, and it takes a moment, her eyes having found and squinted at the flashing green 03:13 of her radio alarm clock, to remember the sharp bang that had roused her from sleep. </p>
<p>Slowly, almost peacefully, two facts become obvious to the dewy folds of her sleep-riddled mind: 1. somebody is in her bedroom, and 2. she is unarmed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slender

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MinaMauveine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MinaMauveine/gifts).



> This is a complete crack piece for MinaRobins, at her request: Regina as Slenderman (with a few changes to what ‘Slenderman’ is). I tried to make it full on crack, but it came out kind of serious… I don’t know what I’m doing with my life anymore.

It's still dark when Emma wakes up, and it takes a moment, her eyes having found and squinted at the flashing green 03:13 of her radio alarm clock, to remember the sharp bang that had roused her from sleep.   
  
Adrenaline does what caffeine can only ever hope to accomplish, and she stares, wide-eyed, at her gaping bedroom window. It had been firmly closed when she'd retired to bed, and there’s not a wind strong enough to open the damn thing without human aid. Slowly, almost peacefully, two facts become obvious to the dewy folds of her sleep-riddled mind: 1. somebody is in her bedroom, and 2. she is unarmed.

Attempting to steady her breathing, although remembering to breathe at all is becoming severely difficult (in and out, she tells herself, just in, then out, in, then out, in—), she forces herself to focus on a plan. The fear she’s feeling helps block all other thoughts, and she listens in the darkness, hearing not a peep to suggest that she had company.

 

Her eyes flicker to the bedside cabinet, and she takes comfort from knowing that its single drawer holds her gun. If she can fool the intruder into thinking she's still asleep, she might have a chance at grabbing for it before things get too messy. It's the best plan she has, at this hour, and she attempts to steel her nerves before she gives herself away.

 

She’s just about to make a move when her eyes – having steadily grown accustomed to the sheath of darkness masking the familiar furnishings of her bedroom – spot the sole rival of her nerves.  
  
It's too late, she realises, as she spots the tall, dark figure standing in the corner of her bedroom, and her fear crawls up from her stomach much like bile. Before she can react - before, even, she can scream - she sees the figure shifting, its arms rising, stretching, _reaching_ towards her.  
  
It's now or never. The arms draw closer, unnaturally long, until Emma can make out each individual red-painted nail on the end of their fingers. She almost falls out of bed with the dive, yanking open the cabinet's drawer, hand searching desperately for the gun.  
  
And then she feels it. Long, cool fingers sliding around her wrists. She sucks in a sharp breath, feeling dizzy with the knowledge that she had actually been caught. Her spine is ramrod straight, and her knees are threatening to give out beneath her, but the grip is strong, holding her up.  
  
Accepting defeat, but not without a sneer, she turns to the woman before her – though woman she sadly is not. Slowly, like the ethereal figure that children’s nightmares depict her as, she moves out of the shadows, and Emma takes in the appearance of her captor - the legend - that she's still uncertain, stubborn 'til the end, if she believes in.   
  
"There's no need for that, dear," she croons, and Emma thinks she might cry as the grip around her wrists intensifies. "Can we not maintain at least the pretence of civility?”  
  
Emma's about to spit back her reply, but then she gets a look at the woman – the _monster_ (though it's becoming increasingly difficult to maintain that view when the being standing before her possesses such earthly beauty).   
  
Her voice is just a whisper, a ghost of her earlier anger, when she finally acknowledges who is standing over her. "Slenderman."  
  
The woman arches an eyebrow. "We go by Slender _pers_ on, now. It's more PC."  
  
Emma grits her teeth. "What do you want from me?"  
  
"From you?"  
  
"Why are you here?"  
  
The woman sniffs delicately and glances around her. The subsequent derision drips into her tone when she says, "I know a lot about you, Emma Swan. Enough to know that, in a crisis, your first port of call is to reach for a weapon. But really, dear, _bullets_?" Her lips pull back in a teeth-baring grin. "I expected better."  
  
"Sorry to disappoint," Emma grunts.  
  
"Oh, you're quite forgiven, Ms. Swan. Now, shall we do this the hard way?"   
  
She turns business-like all at once, and yet, when Emma throws herself back against the bed and lifts her feet in a scissor kick, she is suspiciously prepared. All it really takes is a patient step back.  
  
"As I feared," she sighs, and tightens her grip until she can lift Emma up from the bed by her wrists.  
  
Emma kicks and twists, but gets nowhere, save for a few new aches and pains. "Got a reputation to uphold," she glares, indulging in the conversation, but her voice is strained, her arms aching, and the darkness in her bedroom suddenly seems to be seeping in towards her like a foul sea. She swears she can smell the reek of it, and its weight around her ankles.  
  
The last thing she hears before all goes quiet and black is the Slender's voice over her own dispassionate scream.  
  
"Sleep now, Ms. Swan. You'll need your energy for the morning."

 

# # # #

“She’s dead.”

“She’s not dead. Step back a little.”

“She’s not moving.”

“That’s because she’s sleeping, dear, now come away. Let her rest.”

“You promise you’ll come get me when she wakes up?”

“I told you I would. Go on, go get dressed.”

When the voices quiet, Emma opens her eyes and takes stock of herself. She’s in a bed, a particularly soft bed, and her arms and legs are free to move. That’s more than she was hoping for. A dull ache resides in her limbs and back, though she’s sure she’s more than earned those. Other than that, her body feels strangely relaxed, considering her current situation.

She knows sitting up is a problem when she sees her, standing by a chest of drawers and peering over outfits Emma’s sure aren’t meant for the creature before her. Fear spikes her chest like a thorn, and she slides her legs as silently as she can out of bed, hoping, perhaps, to slip away before the Slender hears her.

She takes three steps before she hears from behind her, “Leaving us so soon?”

It’s enough to have Emma whirling around, hands making fists. She’s being toyed with, she realises, and still has no idea why she’s here. The stories – they all tell it differently from this. The Slender feeds off humans, not adopts them as pets. Though this one does seem to have planned for this little kidnapping, perhaps she’s sentimental – _god_! how can she be taking this seriously?

Above all other questions battling for her voice, Emma begins with blurting out, “You’re not real.”

The Slender looks particularly amused. A good choice in pet, Emma’s sure she’s probably thinking. By the end of the day, she’ll have her doing tricks for scraps of food.

But, Emma’s found her voice, now, and barely keeps a hold of it as it begins running away from her. “You don’t exist – you, you’re – no. I don’t accept this. This isn’t happening to me.” Mistaking adrenaline for courage, she takes a few steps forward, hands flailing, jabbing at her own chest and then the empty space before her (that she’s not in any rush to fill), where the Slender is standing.

“We’re not doing this, okay? I am not gonna be some stupid character in a children’s ghost story. Do you understand that? This isn’t happening. I’m going to get back in that bed, and I’m going to fall asleep, and you’re gonna take me the hell back where you found me, I swear to god—”

The fuel to her hysterics runs out quickly, and she’s left panting and vaguely gesturing towards the four-poster bed that dominates the room. With a delicate rise of her eyebrows, the Slender appears to consider the bed without yet tearing her eyes from Emma’s.

“Are you finished?” And, when Emma makes no attempt at a reply: “Well, now that that’s out of your system.”

She turns back to the drawer, picking once again at the objects inside. Emma’s eyes flicker to the door – it doesn’t look to have a lock (at least not on this side) – if she could run, make it to the exit, get out in the street… but her legs refuse to cooperate. Is the Slender controlling that, too, she wonders, or is this merely through fear?

Turning back with a bundle in her arms, the woman (for her appearance, while disguised, permits such a title) moves to pass it towards Emma. It’s Emma’s flinching that has her pausing, and she turns instead to the bed and begins to lay out an outfit not unlike one that Emma would wear. In fact, it’s frightening similar to the ensembles she dons daily, Emma thinks, right down to the Minnie Mouse socks and leather jacket.

“You will change into these before breakfast,” the woman says, and watches carefully as Emma’s suspicious eyes move towards the drapes. “They’re thick enough to keep out all natural light, but it is already past nine. I shall expect you downstairs before ten.” And, at Emma’s perplexed look, she points towards a closed door behind the shell-shocked blonde. “Bathroom’s through there. I took care to stock all the necessities, so use what you like.”

 

# # # #

 

It’s only been twenty minutes into breakfast, and Emma already thinks that she’s ready to fall into some premature mid-life crisis. She's given eggs and bacon, and the kid (the kid who won’t stop staring at Emma, smiling both knowingly and hopefully) has pancakes and a banana. The Slender doesn’t eat, but sips her coffee in silence from the head of the table.

They’re both watching her, waiting for a reaction, though past her previous choking-fit as a piece of bacon lodged itself in her throat, Emma isn’t sure what more she has to offer. Something has gone horribly wrong, obviously. A part of her brain has given up, or woken up, or messed the fuck up, because for some reason she’s actually sitting, at ten o’clock in the morning, trying to process the idea of the son she put up for adoption over ten years ago, having been adopted by a Slenderm— _person_. The same woman who had just so happened to track her down, and, what?

Her eyes fall on the boy – Henry, she’d found out he was called, and now the name sits like a seed inside her, like it’s already growing roots. “Are you sick?”

His face twists with confusion for all of a second or two before he shakes his head.

“So, what?” Emma continues. “If you don’t want my kidneys, why’d you bring me here?”

She directs the question to the Slender, but Henry is the one who answers, plucking it from the air and twisting her horror and disbelief into a little balloon poodle. “I wanted to see you. I’ve wanted to since mom told me I was adopted, but I… kinda guessed that part.” He shares a look with the Slender sitting at the head of the table, and Emma thinks she detects a softening of the creature’s eyes.

“Mom said there was no address for you, so she had to track you down, and then it wasn’t safe for me to go to you, because…” His face scrunches again, as though he isn’t quite sure why it wasn’t safe, but he continues undeterred. “So she brought you here, instead.”

“Yeah,” Emma nods. “I don’t get it.”

“Well, it was too difficult for me to go to you, but I really wanted to meet you, so mom just brought you here instead.”

Emma nods again, slowly. Her eyes move to the Slender, who seems to be smiling, now, amused. “That’s the part I don’t get. Do you make a habit of kidnapping women in the middle of the night and bringing them back to your home? ‘Cause I can almost guarantee that I’d have taken this whole thing better if you’d have both just turned up on my doorstep.”

“Told you,” Henry hisses, turning to his mother, but the woman only lowers her coffee to the table.

“You seem displeased.”

“Oh, _you think?_ ”

“Henry, clear the table please. It seems Ms. Swan won’t be staying.”

Emma has just a second to feel the relief, before Henry’s head whips around to his mother. “What?! But I only just saw her!”

“And now you’ve met her,” the Slender finishes, standing. Henry's face falls sullenly, but he does not argue. Well, Emma thinks, at least he hadn’t grown up to be a complete brat…

“I wanted to speak with her properly,” he says, turning to Emma.

“Do you suggest we keep her here against her will?”

Henry’s face falters a second later. “No, but—”

“Then clear the table.” A hand settles itself on the boy’s shoulder, and Emma feels a brief shiver at the memory of those red-tipped nails reaching out towards her in the dark. The Slender’s dark eyes settle on Emma. “As for you, there is a bus station a little ways down the street. I can give you directions, but I cannot take you there.” 

She begins leaving, and Emma stumbles out of her seat after her. The kid is still looking sullen and pouty, but he does as he’s told, for Emma hears the clinking of plates being stacked behind her as she follows the Slender through to the foyer. It’s darkly lit, as is the rest of the house, with heavy drapes shielding the windows, and only one dull bulb lighting the way.

The foyer is filled with shadows, and Emma stumbles over them in her haste to catch the Slender before she reaches the staircase. “You’re letting me go?” she asks, and the Slender slowly removes her hand from the foot of the bannister.

Turning around and eyeing Emma with cool, dark eyes, she asks, “You wish to stay?”

Emma is almost shocked by her own hesitation, but forces out a quick, “No.” She glances back the way she had come, confirming that they are alone. “Why’d you go to so much trouble to get me here, if you’re just gonna let me walk away right now?”

“My son wished to see you—”

“And, let me guess, he always gets what he wishes for.”

The Slender turns, taking a step towards Emma with a sharp slap of her heels. “I provide for my son, Ms. Swan. That’s what mothers do.”

Emma settles for biting the inside of her cheek, her eyes flickering subconsciously towards the door. “Yeah, well, as nice as this was, I think I’ll be going now.” She holds the Slender’s gaze, half-expecting to be drawn back, for bars to fall down from the ceiling and ensnare her in a trap, or the very floor to open up and drop her into a deep, dark pit.

She walks to the door with trepidation, slides her fingers around the doorknob, and twists—

“Ms. Swan.”

There it is. Emma feels her shoulders sag. She hears footsteps behind her and closes her eyes, waiting to be dragged back, dragged under, back into the room with the clothes that look so much like her own. She isn’t prepared for the cool hand that takes her own, or the folded piece of card that is passed between them. She opens her eyes and looks down at the hand still wrapped around hers, trapping something there – an address, a phone number? 

“In case you wish to return,” she’s told, and almost wants to laugh in the Slender’s face.

Instead, she grips the piece of card back tightly and nods her head. Her hand is released, and when she tries the doorknob again, it opens with a click. She turns around only once she’s fully outside of the house, bathed in brilliant sunshine and standing in a well-kept front garden. The house, she realises, is more of a manor, and the darkness inside shifts like smog, as though not even the sun is strong enough to penetrate its gloom.

There’s no sight of the woman or the kid, and Emma closes the door on them. Slowly – and then much, much quicker – she makes her way down the garden path and out onto the street. She does not recognise the town she’s in, but a short walk soon directs her to a bus station, and she encounters no obstacles on the journey back to her Boston apartment.

She tells herself she’ll forget about it – she’s bound to, with something that surreal. It was probably a dream, or maybe her neighbour’s marijuana is seeping in through the walls. The only jarring contradiction is the existence of the card, which Emma opens while she’s alone, again, sitting on the edge of her bed.

It fits in the palm of her hand, even when unfolded, and reads in cursive scroll:

_If you change your mind, think of me in your sleep. I will hear you._

_RM_

 


End file.
